


must have been the wind

by dayevsphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Disabled Character, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, background toxic relationship, references to offscreen abuse (past and present)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27417946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayevsphil/pseuds/dayevsphil
Summary: Phil's apartment building has thin walls, and one of his neighbours sounds like they could really use a friend. Honestly, so could Phil.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Original Male Character(s), Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 235





	must have been the wind

**Author's Note:**

> this is an auction fill for the lovely arosemonae! thank you so much for the patience, dear, this year has been a lot for all of us. i hope you love it as much as i loved writing it! this song was such a good prompt ♥
> 
> HEADS UP: this fic is loosely based on the song must have been the wind by alec benjamin, and therefore deals with themes of toxic relationships and mentions of abuse. none of that happens in the foreground (this focuses on hurt/comfort between dnp specifically) but just as an additional warning!

Phil has loud neighbours. He's not sure what he did in a previous life to deserve them, but he isn't bitter about it. Well, he isn't _too_ bitter about it. All he can do in response is keep his head down when he's taking his rubbish out and wear headphones whenever the ambient sounds get too loud.

Maybe, if he's a good enough neighbour to the people in this building that absolutely don't deserve it, he'll have better luck in the next life. Far too many of the sounds outside his flat give him headaches.

Like the clacking heels and pounding music from the overly-friendly drag queens above him or the consistent barking of the elderly dog across the hall. But what's he going to do about it? It's annoying, but Phil would rather die annoyed than confront someone about their volume.

The guys beside him are the worst offenders, though. There's only a thin wall between Phil's bedroom and theirs, so he's an unwilling voyeur to all sorts of things. Sex, of course, but he can also hear when they're playing competitive video games or watching horror movies or anything of the sort, because they've both got such loud voices.

Tonight, they're arguing. That's happening more and more often lately. Phil lies awake in bed and stares at the ugly popcorn ceiling, wishing that he could at least make out any words if he had to listen to this. He figures it would be entertaining, in a way, to hear strangers air out their grievances. He's seen Jeremy Kyle.

\--

Phil is a deep sleeper. He always has been, and he's long considered it a blessing. Sure, he sleeps through three rounds of alarms in the mornings, but he's also managed to sleep through his brother's snoring, his ex watching movies in bed, and most of his ankle's flare-ups.

So when a sudden crashing sound wakes him up, his heart races like he's just finished running a marathon in a mascot costume. He puts his palm to his chest, feeling it pound against his ribcage, and tries to figure out the source of the noise. Did someone break in? Was the zombie apocalypse happening? Were there idiots playing with firecrackers down the street?

Then he hears a familiar shout, someone's front door slamming closed, and - most worrying of all, really - slightly manic laughter.

Phil gropes around his nightstand until he finds his glasses, and then he squints at the clock on his phone. It's too late to still be night but far too early for Phil to consider it morning.

His heart is still racing. He doesn't want to think about why, doesn't want to hear his mum's voice say 'trauma' in the back of his mind, and so he swings his legs out of bed.

Up until he reaches his front door, Phil is intending to just get himself some tea to calm his nerves and then go back to bed. But he hesitates at the door.

Because he knows those sounds. Somehow, it still surprises him that he can hear them from the same people who laugh together until they start to wheeze, because he's never fully let go of optimism.

Phil grabs one of the well-worn jean jackets by the door and stuffs his feet into the nearest shoes before he heads out into the hallway. He doesn't bother with his cane, because he's not walking far and he hates the thing besides. 

It feels surreal as he knocks on the apartment door, like he's watching someone else move his body like a marionette. He just has to see for himself that whoever's left in there is okay, or he won't sleep. 

The man who answers the door is both taller and younger than Phil expects, but the frown on his soft face is par for the course.

He's got dark circles under his eyes and his curly hair is a mess, his pyjamas are clashing like he'd only thrown something on to answer the door, and yet Phil's first thought is a traitorous _oh, cute_.

"Er," Phil says, eloquently. "Hi. I live next door?"

He didn't mean to make it sound like a question. Curly doesn't seem very impressed. 

"We'll keep the volume down," he says shortly. He moves like he's going to close the door, and Phil raises his palms up in a placating gesture.

"No, sorry, I just," says Phil. He can feel himself gearing up for a good ramble, so he bites his lip and tries to condense it into just a few words. Curly doesn't seem up to the task of decoding the message in a Phil ramble. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Curly's expression changes rapidly through a few emotions that Phil can't pinpoint. He's never been strong at identifying nonverbal emotions. 

He sees the surprise, though. Curly hadn't expected that from him.

"I'm fine," he says after a pause.

"I heard something break," Phil guesses at the sound he'd been woken up by. The twist of Curly's mouth says it was a good one.

"Must have been the wind, mate," says Curly. 

Phil knows that tone. He knows the stubborn set of Curly's jaw, the bags under Curly's eyes, the slouch of Curly's shoulders. He sees Bryony in it. He sees _himself_ in it.

So he only says, "My door's always open if you need a place to be."

Curly laughs. It's more subdued than Phil heard through the wall, but it's unmistakably the same mild hysteria.

"Sure," he says. "Sorry about the noise."

The door is closed on Phil for real then. His anxiety has only lessened a little bit. 

It seems like nobody was hurt in whatever altercation happened tonight, but he's not stupid. He'll keep an ear out and his door open, and he won't think about his neighbours' fighting as Jeremy Kyle arguments anymore.

That's all he can do.

\--

Phil should have brought his cane. He'd figured that the coffee shop was just a couple streets over from his building, the bank near enough that they were basically next to each other, and that he was feeling fine, besides. But then he'd had to stand in two different queues for far too long, and, as a cherry on top, his building's lift was broken again.

He sighs, clinging to the railing as he drags himself awkwardly up the steps, and counts himself lucky that he's not too high up.

When he reaches the second floor - after a lot more cussing and sweating than he thinks a single flight of stairs generally produces - Phil doesn't notice that there's someone sitting in the hallway until he nearly trips over their legs.

"Whoa, you okay?" the guy asks, scrambling to his feet to help Phil right himself again. Phil didn't actually fall, which was good, but the pain in his ankle is still annoying. 

"Yeah, sorry," Phil mutters. He blinks at the Totoro shirt in front of him before looking up a bit into the doe eyes of his next door neighbour.

"No, that's my fault," Curly says with a sardonic little smile. "I forget how much room I take up sometimes."

Phil does his best to smile back. He wonders if he can get away with leaning against the wall as he hobbles to his door, but he doesn't want to look like an idiot in front of Curly again. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

"I'm locked out."

"That sucks," says Phil. "What time is your partner back?"

"Oh, he's in there," says Curly. His voice is clipped, like he's annoyed but not with Phil, and Phil connects the unspoken dots.

"Do you want to come inside? You're welcome whenever, I work from home and have a crap social life so I'm basically always here."

There's something like longing in Curly's face, but then it shutters.

"Why?" His voice is flat. He doesn't sound curious about the answer at all. The reason for that is obvious when he continues with, "You want me to do you a favour in return for your generous hospitality?"

The gesture that he makes when he says 'favour' is explicit enough to make Phil's ears burn.

"Er, no," Phil says, slow. He shifts his weight onto his good foot, wincing as he does. Curly's doe eyes track the motion, the pain that's caused by it, and then return to Phil's face. "I just... I like your shirt."

Curly blinks. He looks down at himself as if he's forgotten what he's wearing. "Oh, you're a Ghibli man?"

"Big time," says Phil. "I've got a boxset. Like I said, you're welcome to come in if you'd like to. We can watch one of the films if you want, or we can talk about... you know, that loud wind of yours."

"Fuck the wind," Curly snorts. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Okay," Phil agrees easily. "I have to sit down, though. The door is open, you can let yourself in if you need somewhere to be for a little while tonight."

Phil gives him a smile that he hopes doesn't look serial-killer-y and heads back into his flat. He's barely gotten comfortable on the couch, careful fingers prodding at his bad ankle, when his door creaks open again.

"Fuck, mate," Curly says in a tone of total awe. "I could be a cannibal, and you're just letting me walk in."

"You've got vegan buttons," Phil says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Curly's backpack.

"That would be quite the cover, wouldn't it."

"Eat me or don't, I don't care," says Phil. "Just close the door. It's cold in the hall."

After a long, incredulous pause, Curly closes the door. Phil is surprised and pleased to see that he closes it with himself inside Phil's flat. He spends another few seconds giving Phil wary looks and inspecting the walls for some kind of evidence of murder, but he seems to be content with the picture that's provided to him: a lonely, injured man with childish interests and a weakness for strays.

\--

The thing with strays, of course, is that they keep coming back after you feed them.

There was a pair of scraggly cats who still came around long after they'd gotten collars, not seeming to care that Phil sneezed constantly in their presence. They would yowl unhappily if the window was closed, spend some time meowing at Phil like they were telling him all their woes, nap on his sofa, and disappear when his back was turned.

Curly - Daniel, he says, but Phil can call him Dan if he feels like it - reminds Phil of those cats.

He uses the door instead of the window and the reprimands are about Phil leaving it unlocked for fictitious murderers to let themselves in willy-nilly, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny.

"I could have been anyone," is Dan's usual greeting. Phil doesn't bother acknowledging it anymore. "It's like you want to be eaten."

"And yet, you're the only one who ever comes over," Phil says dryly. He's supposed to be doing work, but he'd gotten nice and distracted by dog videos.

There's a bit of noise from the kitchen before Dan joins him on the sofa, plopping down with a bag of crisps. When he notices Phil's expression, he holds the bag out as if he's offering Phil some of his own damn crisps.

Phil takes a handful. He's not rude.

"You'd not believe the day I had shadowing my actual cunt of a professor," Dan says, as if the entire sentence could be said in one quick breath. Phil settles in for storytime, which will last until Dan runs out of breath or safe topics, whichever comes first.

Dan talks about a lot of things when he's taking up space on Phil's couch. He rarely lets Phil get a word in edgewise, as well, which Phil thinks is at least partially an attempt to prevent any questions about Dan's well-being. Or maybe this is just what the guy is like - a sudden downpour of nonsense, like he's been keeping every thought of the day bottled up until he's with Phil.

Dan does not talk about the man he lives with. Nothing positive, nothing negative, nothing at all. Phil wouldn't even know of his existence if he didn't have to share a bedroom wall with them.

\--

Sometimes the fighting keeps Phil up. He stares at the ceiling and wishes he could text Dan, call him, even go over to interrupt whatever the argument of the night is.

He knows better, though. He's all too familiar with the situation, and how communication from another man in the middle of the night might only make things worse for Dan. So he waits until the morning, and he texts Dan a dog gif, and he wonders if he could do more.

So those nights are hard. But others are getting harder.

The sex was never exactly comfortable for Phil to hear, but it's gotten nearly unbearable now. It doesn't happen often, and it surprises him when it does, and he tells himself that he's bothered because Dan isn't in a healthy relationship. He goes out to the sofa and plays video games with his noise-cancelling headphones on until his blood stops pounding through his veins.

(There's one time, just once, that Phil doesn't ignore it. He wakes up hard and confused from the combination of a sweaty dream and the keening he can hear through the wall. He decides to hate himself for it in the morning when he wraps a hand around his cock and imagines Dan making those pretty noises for him. Pain shoots up each of his wrists as he tries to get off, and he ends up rutting into a pillow in rhythm with Dan's whines. It's all sorts of frustrating and wrong and even though Phil comes way harder than he should from just humping his pillow, he doesn't do that again.)

Phil is pretty good at lying, when he needs to be, but he's always had a hell of a time trying to fool himself. No matter how many layers of repression and excuses he buries feelings under, they'll inevitably rise to the surface.

Still, he keeps up the pretence in his own mind. He's bothered for Dan's mental health, not for his own budding jealousy.

\--

Morning comes, as it always does, and Phil doesn't want to get out of bed.

He'd been up half the night trying to escape the cycle of sex and fighting and sex and fighting that Dan and his partner had fallen into, but he'd woken up in too much pain to go back to sleep.

Phil is always in a little bit of pain. Migraines and stomachaches are nothing unfamiliar to him - those have been plaguing him since he was a child. It's the more recent aches that he struggles the most with: the nerve damage in his ankle, the arthritis in his wrists, the way his back seems to get worse and worse with age. It feels like he's thirty going on eighty, the way his body rebels against him, and some mornings he just can't handle it.

So he stays in bed. He ignores the emails pinging on his phone, secure in the knowledge that his boss doesn't hold a bad pain day against him. He's lucky for that. 

He can't seem to muster up any gratitude. There's too much bitterness and anger and helplessness bubbling up under his skin for that.

It's a testament to how out of it he is that Phil doesn't hear Dan come in the flat until a blurry figure is hovering uncertainly in the bedroom door.

"I could have been anyone," Dan says, but he doesn't sound like his heart is in it. "Are you okay?"

"Are you?" Phil returns, more tired and cranky than he's ever been with Dan. He doesn't bother putting on his glasses. He doesn't want to see Dan flinching back or giving him that sympathetic look people can't seem to help.

"Peachy keen. Five by five. What's wrong, Phil?"

"Everything hurts," Phil tells the ceiling. "Close the door and keep the volume down if you're here to hide."

For a long moment, Dan doesn't say anything. The quiet is so unusual that Phil is tempted to look at him again, but he's not curious enough to put his glasses on and puzzle out an expression.

"What do you take for the pain?" Dan asks, soft about the question in a way that makes Phil tense. He really doesn't need Dan's pity.

"Nothing," Phil says flatly. "Regular painkillers don't work anymore."

"Do you need -?"

"Dan, just," Phil cuts him off and presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, as if that'll help ward off the migraine that will surely appear if Dan keeps stressing him out. "I'm sorry, but go away. I can't take care of you right now."

There's a huffing noise, and then Dan leaves the room.

Phil keeps the pressure on his eyes and decides to feel guilty later. He knows that Dan had a hard night, since he had a front row seat to that, but bad pain days make him frustrated and almost selfish in his attitude towards other people's problems. He can explain that later, when his ankle and back and wrists and head aren't all conspiring to make him want to die.

He doesn't know how long he wallows in that awful feeling before he senses someone in the room again. He squints over at Dan, wondering why he didn't just leave. 

Dan comes closer, and Phil can tell that he's carrying things now. It had all been a beige and black blur from further away.

"Toast," Dan says as he starts setting things down on Phil's bedside table. "Coffee, water. Can I get you anything else?"

"Thank you." The politeness comes automatically, before Phil can even wrap his head around what's going on. He sits up a bit, wincing at the twinges in his back as he does. "No, I don't - that's okay. You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

Phil knows he's frowning, but Dan doesn't offer any further explanation. He simply places Phil's glasses in his hands and leaves the room again, softly closing the door behind him.

\--

"I'm sorry," Phil says later, his knuckles white on his cane as he hobbles back from the bathroom.

Dan doesn't look up from where he's made himself comfortable on Phil's sofa. His fingers pause on his laptop keyboard, but that's the only indication Phil has that Dan heard him at all.

"Don't be stupid," says Dan.

"I was mean."

"Phil," Dan says, and his tone is more familiar now. It's the same exasperation as when he tries to get Phil to lock his door or stop drinking milkshakes. "You're literally the nicest person I've ever met. You're allowed to tell me to go away when you don't feel well, but I'm not just going to _not_ take care of you. I want to help you too, knobhead."

It's been a long time since Phil allowed someone to take care of him. His instincts are screaming against it now, even, but he's so _tired_. They can argue about it tomorrow. 

"Sorry," Phil repeats anyway. He leans more of his weight onto the cane that he hates with a burning passion and feels some twisted gratitude that Dan isn't looking up to see his moment of weakness. "I'm going to lie back down."

"Let me know if you need anything."

Phil hesitates. He knows that he has no right to ask - he has no right to _Dan_ , the moans he heard last night serve as a harsh reminder of that fact - but he's tired. He's so tired. 

He's tired of being alone for these days. He's tired of these days existing at all.

"You can come with me," Phil says, stilted and uncertain and just desperate enough to make Dan look at him in surprise. "I mean, I'm not much company. And I don't really want to watch anything or talk or… anything, really, I'm just going to lie down and stare at the ceiling and stew in self-hatred. But if you're hiding out here, I wouldn't… mind. If you hung out anyway."

Dan is standing before Phil has even finished talking. "Yeah," he says, unplugging his laptop. "Yeah, I'll keep you company, Phil. Go lay down, I'm gonna make some tea first."

Phil wishes he could say that Dan being in his bed for the first time was notable in any way, but it's not, really. 

The notable parts of the day are Dan asking if the clacking sounds of the keyboard are annoying, getting Phil water whenever he runs low, holding back his usual running commentary on Phil's behalf. 

What's notable isn't Dan, lanky and beautiful and quiet on Phil's bed. What's notable is that, every time Phil jerks awake from a doze, Dan is still there.

He's there. Just because Phil asked him to be.

\--

Then, Dan disappears. 

Not literally, of course. He still answers Phil's texts and everything, so he's not _missing_ , but he's super vague about where he is and how long he'll be gone. All he'll say is that he's out of town, and Phil has no choice but to accept that as a full answer. 

He doesn't like it. He can't hear anything next door, which means that Dan didn't go somewhere by himself, and Phil has maybe watched too many horror movies in his life to be calm about his friend up and leaving town in the middle of the week. He shares those anxieties with Dan in the only way he knows how - jokes - and Dan responds in the same fashion. 

It's eleven entire days of non-answers and worry before Phil's front door opens again. He nearly gets a crick in his neck from how fast he looks around, and he hears Dan's laugh before he really registers that Dan is back, and here, and in one piece.

"I could have been anyone," Dan teases as he closes the door behind him. He's got a rucksack over his shoulder and Phil wonders - did he come here before his own apartment?

"You're okay," Phil breathes, relaxing back into the sofa. He hadn't realised exactly how much tension he'd been holding until it all leaves at once.

"Well, yeah," says Dan. He rolls his eyes, kicks off his shoes, drops his bag carelessly on the floor. "Told you I was."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Phil says sarcastically. "Not like the wind spooked me or anything."

Something like contrition passes across Dan's face, but then he's smiling again. He looks so much younger than he had before he left, so carefree, and Phil automatically glances at Dan's hands to look for a goddamn ring.

"I was in Birmingham," Dan offers, flopping onto the sofa with Phil. He's much closer than he needs to be, but Phil isn't exactly complaining. He's been a bit touch-starved without Dan's thigh or shoulder pressed against his own. "I didn't want to tell you what was up until I knew for sure."

"And you know now?" Phil asks warily 

The smile Dan gives him is blinding, and Phil has to blink away actual spots from it. "Yeah."

"Okay," Phil says after a beat. Dan's arm, splayed across the back of the couch and seeping warmth into Phil's shoulders, is distracting. "So tell me, then."

"David and I were visiting friends of ours," says Dan. He doesn't seem to realise that it's the first time Phil has heard his partner's name, because he steamrolls past like it's old news. "And we got to talking - we did a lot of talking, like, until _my_ voice got hoarse, and I can talk a lot, and we made some decisions."

"When's the wedding?" Phil asks, dry. He's only half joking. 

Dan laughs. He throws his head back with it, just for a second, and Phil's eyes follow the line of his throat without his brain's permission.

"Yeah fucking right," Dan says, grinning. "Can you imagine? No, fuck that, I'm not going to turn into my mum this early in life. No, we decided that he's better off staying in Birmingham and I'm better off here." Something in Phil's face makes Dan's smile soften, and his voice is gentle when he adds, "Because we're better off not being together at all. I'm shipping the rest of his stuff to him on Monday."

"Oh," Phil says, because for a long moment that's all he can manage. Then, the relief and happiness for his friend hit him, and he pulls Dan into a half hug. "Oh, Dan, that must suck a bit, but I'm also really proud of you."

"Thanks," Dan laughs into his ear. "So if you hear anything through the wall, it really is just the wind."

"You're a very loud and clumsy man," Phil points out. "I won't rule out the dropping of plates followed by much cursing."

"You watched Buffy without me," says Dan, but there's no heat behind the accusation. His eyes are crinkled with happiness when he pulls back from Phil, and his arm is so warm on Phil's shoulders. For a wild moment, Phil wonders if Dan is going to kiss him. Instead, he pats Phil's thigh. "I can tell, you're doing the mimic thing again. Figure out where _we_ were, I'm gonna make us something to eat."

"You say that like rewatching season three is a punishment," says Phil. "Not my fault you went MIA on a cliffhanger, mate."

Dan's laugh is so bright and loud and _unburdened_ now. Phil feels a familiar tug of longing in his chest and does his best to repress it. Dan only just broke up with his partner, and what he needs right now is a friend.

That's okay. Phil can be a great friend.

\--

Dan starts coming over a lot more. It's nice for a lot of reasons, and Phil enjoys his company even more now that Dan is expanding his 'safe' topics and actually letting Phil get a word in edgewise, but it also means that Phil gets scolded a lot more.

Leaving his door open is still the main culprit, but Dan has moved on to nagging about Phil's socks being left on the coffee table and the cupboards being left open and the way Phil gets distracted from his work. It's like having a part-time boyfriend without any of the sexy benefits, and Phil tries to be annoyed about it.

He can't be, though. He likes it too much. He likes that Dan is making himself so comfortable and opening up, and, okay, he also just likes _Dan_.

Still, he knows that he can fix at least one of those things. He slides an envelope under Dan's door on his way home from running errands, and then he goes home for a nap. 

He locks his front door behind him.

When Phil wakes up, it's because there's someone else climbing into bed with him. He blinks blearily up at the Dan-shaped blur and smiles.

"Hey," he says on a yawn. "How was school?"

"You gave me a key," Dan says, which would be a non-sequitur if Phil didn't understand how his brain works at this point. He can't really place the tone of Dan's voice, too sleepy to put in the extra energy that's always involved in figuring out other people's emotions, but the statement is easy enough to respond to.

"I did. Nice to know it works."

"You gave me a _key_."

"Yeah, so now you can't bug me to lock the door," says Phil. He squints, trying to bring Dan's face into more focus. "Did I fuck up, or are you just confused by the gesture?"

Dan laughs. It's something raw and on the edge of hysteria, but Phil doesn't get a chance to work himself into a proper worry about it. Dan's warmth and weight is suddenly much closer, practically on top of Phil, and he can smell the coffee on Dan's breath.

"You gave me a key," Dan whispers, and there's something identifiable in his voice now. Phil feels hope swell in his chest and smiles slowly. He reaches out to touch the nearest part of Dan, splaying his fingers over the side of what feels like Dan's hip, and nods. Dan laughs again, quieter this time, and then he's finally, finally leaning in so Phil can _taste_ the coffee on his tongue.

\--

Phil likes the weight of a dick in his hand - the way good lube slicks over it, the throb of it against his palm, the way the person attached to it always ruts forward for more, more, more - but his wrists really don't like it. He barely gets a good grip on Dan before his arthritis tells him that this is _not_ happening today.

"Fuck," Phil groans. He lets go of Dan and sulks a bit up at him. "Wrists hurt."

"That's okay," Dan assures him, pressing open-mouthed kisses over his jaw. "I'll get myself after."

"No," says Phil. He's practically whining, already rocking up against Dan's hip. He knows he's not going to last long once Dan is touching him, and he doesn't want to just lie there covered in his own come while Dan gets off on him. Well - okay, that doesn't sound _bad_ , but maybe another time. "No, I - I want it together."

Dan gives him an indulgent sort of smile and another soft kiss to Phil's stubble, and Phil feels his heart trying to pound out of his chest.

"Okay," Dan says easily. "Together, then."

Dan shifts his weight on top of Phil to get comfortable, and then Phil's cock is enveloped in slick heat. Dan's grip is looser than Phil would prefer, and he's about to complain but then Dan's hand is encompassing _both_ of them, and all potential complaints get thrown out the window.

"Oh, fuck," Phil breathes, kicking his head back against the pillows. Dan giggles in response, which is way hotter than it has any right to be, and Phil can't resist pulling him down for another deep kiss.

It's unbelievably warm and wet with Dan surrounding him like this, and Phil is moaning into the kiss like they've been fucking for hours instead of minutes.

"You love this so much, huh?" Dan murmurs into the space between their lips. "You don't get laid enough."

"I don't," Phil agrees breathlessly.

"And with your shitty wrists? No wonder you're about to shoot off already."

"Sh-shut up."

Dan laughs and bites at Phil's lower lip. "Mm, no. Want you to. C'mon, why don't you come for me?"

Either Phil is far too suggestible or Dan has a magic touch, because he does exactly that within seconds of Dan telling him to. Phil wraps both arms around Dan's shoulders and kisses him within an inch of his life. He feels the motions of Dan's knuckles against his tummy as he wanks himself with a hand still covered in Phil's come, and he doesn't think again for the rest of the night.

\--

Dan sits next to the open window, but he's not looking out of it. There isn't much to see from a second storey flat, even if he didn't seem to be totally distracted by the ball of fur in his lap.

"I see you've met Simon," Phil says, soft enough that Dan doesn't jump.

"There's another one poking around somewhere," Dan tells him. He's smoothing his large palm over the cat's tortoiseshell fur, and his large doe eyes look even warmer than usual in the soft candlelight. "I didn't know what to do, they just came in."

"They do that," says Phil. He knows that Tommy is curled up in one of his cupboards somewhere, and he also knows that both cats will leave on their own whenever they feel like it. "I guess strays like me."

Dan gives him an amused sort of look before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the purring distraction. "Can't say I blame them."

There are things that Phil could say, jokes that he could make, but then one of the drag queens upstairs drops something on the floor with a loud cackle and the moment is broken. Instead, Phil runs his hand over Dan's curls on his way past the window and smiles as he leans into it. 

He can make the jokes later. Right now, he's going to make tea and put Buffy on. 

The flat next door is pleasantly silent.

**Author's Note:**

> another huge thank to to monae for the lovely prompt, and of course another thank you to chicken and puddle for helping me through this. you're all so great!!!!


End file.
